not falling down

I forgot to mention that my Muse for yesterday’s anacrusis was fancy boy Cody Powell. I mean, moreso than usual.

You know, Java is great until you have to design a user interface with it. Then again, I could say that about pretty much any language that isn’t PHP (which just delegates UI to HTML).

I plan on never designing a non-HTML UI, so it’s a good thing I know a fancy boy UI programmer already. I assume he works for pudding.

Oh, sure, Cody Powell may have a cool devlog and I don’t, but I know what it’s like to double-wield Covenant plasma rifles. Does he? Well, probably by later today he will. I’ve got nothing! My life is ruined!

What’s it’s like, incidentally, is that somebody thought up a way to make Covenant weapons useful.

I guess now that I’m posting again I have to address the issue of how Rivalry Week ended up.

Trinity won. But Centre won… in my heart.

P. S. Fancy boy, if you email my your home address, I will honor the terms and ship along your bowl of tapioca. I definitely will not sign you up for every junk email list I can find, or send you a pipe bomb. That would be out of character.

Let’s talk about Cody Powell. Cody Powell is a living, breathing colonoscopy. After my perfectly civil post the other day, describing in mild and accurate terms the reasons why our former schools hate each other, “Mister” Powell spent three solid days responding the only way he knows how: public urination. I am disappointed, but unsurprised.

As is usually the case in matters between myself and Mister “Powell,” I’m left to take the high road… alone. I’ve said my piece about “Trinity” “University,” and there’s no need for me to elaborate on it. Will I say, for instance, that there are no Trinity class reunions after the tenth, since by then every member is inevitably dead of syphilis? Will I say that the pregnancy rate at Trinity is low only because its male students so often confuse vaginas with ear canals? Will I point out that Centre graduates tend to end up as Vice-Presidents and Supreme Court Justices, whereas Trinity graduates go to Jupiter, to get more stupider? No. No, I will not.

“Mister” “Powell,” the “ball” is in your “court.” We can shake hands and agree to disagree like human beings, or we can take the well-trampled route of your former classmates and do it in the dirt. Regardless of your choice, naturally, the lithe, golden god-avatars of Centre will spend Saturday trodding nobly on the collective face of the Trinity Troglodytes. And when I receive your bowl of pudding, Fancy Boy, I will do with it what men have done for centuries with such devices: I will install it in my water closet, and into it, privately, I will pee.

I once ran competitively, while wearing shorts that were made to fit a girl. More recently, I engaged in the pastime of twirling a disc back and forth over mud, and falling down. I’m not much of a sporting man, it’s true; I don’t play games with life, and it doesn’t play games with me. But those of you who know me–really know me–or who have been reading this journal for the past few days, know that there’s one major-league sport that can really set my blood a-racin’.

That sport is football.

Every year, my alma mater and a certain podunk nobody school in Texas throw down the pigskin over one hundred yards of bloodstained turf. Now, it’s true that Trinity has the better record, but that’s only because its student body is composed of vicious, quasi-sapient goat-mutants.

Perhaps the biggest shock of my life came about a year ago, when I learned that renowned fancy boy Cody Powell was an alumnus of that same mockery of higher education. I did a little checking, in fact, and confirmed that he is the only pure-blooded human ever to graduate Trinity! No mean feat, I must say, and of course I’d never drop a bad word about my good friend C-Po. I do have to point out that he had sex with girls at his school, though. Think about that for a second.

Regardless, my daily exchange with the Picklemeister has been a little strained lately, a little tense, a little shrill and twitchy on one end. The perennial Centre-Trinity footbattle is just around the corner; on October 23, Mister Powell and myself are going to see just which side is really worth its mustard.

If my team wins, I’m going to fax him a copy of my balls.

Goulash goulash gou-

lash goulash goulash goulash.

Goulash goulash. Fuck.

I cleaned a lot of plates in Berkeley, pumped a lot of pain in the EFF offices. But I never saw the good side of the city… until I played Illuminati with Leonard, Seth and Zack while Sumana danced to songs about shell accounts.

Actually I saw several very neat sides of the city, including BART (which beats the tar out of TARC, I’m afraid, leaving it with one measly C) and Salon Central. I missed out on the party at City Hall, but I sure heard a lot about it. The weather was gorgeous, and I made new friends (Jacob from Alaska is three, and he and I played hide-and-seek from O’Hare to Louisville).

Recent excursions into Powellian hyperbole notwithstanding, I had a freaking great time in California, thanks entirely to my kind and generous hosts. Even though I’ve been up for about 30 hours trying to grab the tail end of all the work I missed, I don’t regret a thing, and I can’t wait to go back. Maria and I spent a good chunk of yesterday (when I should have been, um, grabbing the aforementioned work-tail) making the first real arrangements for this summer’s Calicomicon journey. The Five Lords of the Texas Eagle will sow terror and reap, um, comic books!

Five Great Things That Start with ‘G’

• Grover
• Grimbles
• Gnomic
• Goulash
• Gnomons

The Emperor-Priest of Goulash basically trumps the real site with his own three grouphugs. (Did you know grouphug.us doesn’t even HAVE A Google PageRank? Not that I mentioned this.) They’re beautiful.

CONFIDENTIAL TO CODY POWELL: Thanks for giving me something to regurgipost, Your Worship, otherwise I’d have to confess that I had the most boring day in the world. I ate Easy Mac for lunch, that’s how boring it was. And then I watched TV.